


Breaking Faith

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: F1slash Summer Slash 2006, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A break from normality gives a chance at freedom - but it comes at the cost of faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Faith

On the slope of grey stonework is etched a magic square. Its numbers are not unique: some repeat themselves. It is a passive puzzle, a self-fulfilling prophecy. It does not challenge the viewer to solve its mystery, unless the viewer has a mind to attempt an understanding of its arcane code.

"What does it mean?" Gerhard asks.

"Nothing," replies Ayrton.

For a moment they are silent, but for different reasons. The immense grandeur of La Sagrada Familia stretches above them, up and up until they can no longer be sure if they are the dwindling points anchoring this temple to the earth, or if the far distant tiled stone fruits punctured by the spires are the points anchoring the church to the clouds.

Gerhard brings his gaze back down to the reality of the stones in front of him. This is not the most celebrated side of La Sagrada Familia. It's not Gaudi's representation of the Nativity with its writhing foliage, but Subirach's solid, angular depiction of the Passion.

Gerhard likes Gaudi's wit and the bizarre, sensual nature of his figures. Ayrton does not. As soon as they arrived at the entrance, he'd wrinkled his nose at the Nativity and walked around the temple to look instead at the Passion.

"Never thought you'd be a Modernista," Gerhard teases now, but gently, out of deference for the fact that, despite its artful blend of pagan and Christian, this is still a church and Ayrton is a Catholic.

"I am not," Ayrton says. "But the Nativity defies description, like Christ's birth. But here, the Passion is made simple. We do not need to alter our perception of the world to understand it."

Gerhard nods. He is not particularly religious himself, but he can understand the organised communion between God and man, and machine and man. He is not surprised that Ayrton should prefer Subirach's conformist, workmanlike renderings. That is how he arranges his life, his race set-up, even his position within the team. At the centre of it all, though, is a Mystery.

Gerhard loves a mystery. He examines the magic square again, adding up the numbers in each row and column in case they mean something; and then he gives up this lesser mystery and turns around.

The square behind them is small and tatty. There's a kiosk selling ice cream and newspapers. Sparrows peck through the dust. A tramp sleeps beneath a sheet of cardboard on a bench beneath a tree. Around the edge of the square are tapas bars, filled by the lunchtime influx of office workers and tourists.

A couple of girls stroll past. They're Spanish by their looks, dark with warm honeyed skin. One wears a short denim skirt and a pastel pink top. The other wears tight black leggings and a red vest. They both glance towards the two men standing in front of the church.

Gerhard smiles, an automatic response to female interest. Even when their gazes linger on Ayrton, he continues to smile. Ayrton might attract attention, but it's always Gerhard that gets the girls.

The women continue on their way. The one in the denim skirt turns her head to give him another look before they hurry out of sight. Gerhard grins at her. Small victories mean more than big battles.

* * *

Ayrton insists that they go to the cathedral. After the strange space of La Sagrada Familia, it is almost a relief to walk into a normal church. Gerhard wanders around and looks at the chapels filled with plaster and plastic saints. Candles are lit in banks in front of each set of black iron gates. There are small puddles of cold wax on the floor. He scuffs at them, and when the wax cracks and flakes into pieces, he wonders if he's broken someone's prayers.

Gerhard feeds a handful of pesetas into the offertory boxes on each gate. He feels more satisfaction at hearing the sound of the coins rattle home than he does for his act of charity.

His walk around the inside of the cathedral is done. Ayrton is sitting near the altar, his hands clasped as he stares up at the stained glass windows. Gerhard assumes his team-mate is praying. He doesn't want to disturb him.

Outside, the warm afternoon sun illuminates the cloister. Palm trees grow in this tiny approximation of paradise, and white geese honk and cackle and flap their wings. There's a fountain as wide as a pulpit, with ancient stone heads green with lichen dribbling water from copper pipes. Gerhard cups his hand beneath one spout and washes his face with the water. It's colder than he expects.

He sits on the steps outside one of the cloister chapels and waits.

When Ayrton emerges into the sunshine he stands for a moment, dazzled by brightness after so long in half-light. Gerhard gets to his feet and goes over to him.

"All done confessing?"

"It wasn't confession."

Gerhard grins. "Shame you can't confess your sins in advance."

Ayrton gives him a mildly reproving look. "That would be impossible. Not all sins are premeditated."

"Only the best ones," Gerhard says.

Ayrton shakes his head. "No. The best ones are those that arise on a decision made on the spur of the moment. That's where true sin lies: on that knife edge of control, when you are tempted in one direction, yet you know that the moral choice is along the other path."

They move towards the exit. As they pass beneath the arched vault and through the great wooden door to the street, the shadow of the cathedral presses down upon them. It's cold in the brief moment of darkness.

"So sin is like driving a race car," Gerhard says. "How many times have we been on that edge, knowing that the racing line is one direction, and yet the only way to overtake is to leave the racing line, to dart up the inside or cut around the outside, to risk clipping the kerb or putting our wheels on the grass… and yet we do it."

Ayrton doesn't reply. They walk through the narrow streets of Barri Gotic, Ayrton in the sun, Gerhard in the shadows.

Gerhard warms to his theme: "And just like sin, an overtaking manoeuvre can be punished if we misjudge it. We end up in the gravel trap, or stranded on the kerb, or spinning around and shunting another car…"

"And yet," Ayrton says, "if we succeed, then it is not like sin, because the feeling of being in front of a rival, of leading the race, of winning it because of that one manoeuvre – that feeling is pride."

"Which is a sin," Gerhard reminds him. "A deadly one."

Ayrton smiles at last. "You have an answer for everything."

"And you have a… theology? Philosophy? – for everything, too."

"It is just how I am."

Gerhard looks at him with affection. "Yeah. I know. Even if I don't get it."

Ayrton bows his head to hide the resurgence of his smile. "You do not need to get it. There is no mystery here."

Gerhard doesn't believe him.

* * *

They walk through the city and pass unrecognised until they sit down to eat at a small open-fronted restaurant near La Rambla. Gerhard insists on eating paella and drinking sangria, playing the tourist to perfection. He even unbuttons his shirt to show off the patch of sunburn acquired from their wanderings. He flirts with the waitress, a plump forty-something woman with wide hips and an expansive bosom. With his encouragement, she touches the sunburn and exclaims in rapid Spanish that he feels hot and must take care of his fair northern skin.

Ayrton translates, although he is scarcely needed for such a duty. His smile is wan, as if he's seen Gerhard's flirtations too many times before. His mood is noted, and Gerhard despatches the waitress with a wink and a mock leer.

They eat according to their nature. Gerhard takes heaped platefuls of the paella and generous gulps of the sangria. Ayrton picks at his food, careful with the mussels and finishing every grain of rice before reaching for the next helping. He ignores the jug of sangria and instead takes sips of water.

A man wearing a Ferrari t-shirt recognises them. Gerhard touches Ayrton's foot with his own in warning. While he is not averse to meeting fans, sometimes Ayrton can be less than charming if caught unawares.

The fan hesitates before coming over. He is polite and respectful, some might even say awestruck. His gaze is on Ayrton almost the whole time, although he does extend a paper serviette to Gerhard and asks for his autograph, mentioning his victory at Canada halfway through the season.

Gerhard smiles and signs Ayrton's name. He's almost perfected copying his friend's signature. The fan only glances at it, and Gerhard is tickled to think that later, the fan won't be able to tell which is the genuine autograph and which is the fake.

There's a pause after the platitudes. The fan stares at Ayrton as if expecting him to do something miraculous. Instead, Ayrton dips his head, his detachment folding like a cloak around him. He touches the side of his plate.

The fan nods, backing away. The audience is ended. He bids them a good night and leaves the restaurant, the serviette clasped in his hands.

Gerhard never knows how to end a conversation. He likes things to be endless, and for him to drift in and out of them at leisure. Life is a series of uninterrupted waves that travel around and around. Like a surfer, Gerhard believes that you should jump aboard and ride the wave until you want to get off. The wave continues on without you, and there is no harm done.

But Ayrton is different. He knows where things start and where they end. Gerhard wonders if this is a Catholic trait, all alphas and omegas: but didn't God say he was both beginning and end? Gerhard doesn't know. Ayrton would.

* * *

It is too pleasant a night to waste indoors. Gerhard suggests a beer or two at one of the pavement cafes in the square facing the cathedral. Ayrton agrees. They attract a few curious glances when they sit down, but no one comes to bother them. Spain has never had a world champion F1 driver; indeed, they have been curiously absent from the sport altogether. Gerhard thinks that the Spaniards must follow Ferrari by default, a Latin conspiracy; but for all that, he is glad they are left alone to enjoy their drinks.

The cathedral is floodlit against the night, but only in part. Great sections of it remain in darkness. He sees Ayrton looking at it with a kind of wistfulness.

Gerhard knows what that feeling is like. He experiences it almost daily: the emotion of something lesser in the presence of something greater. And while Ayrton might feel humbled by Barcelona's medieval cathedral, Gerhard hesitates to put a name to the emotion he feels when he's alone with his friend.

The bells sound the hour. Ayrton checks his watch, measuring his time against theirs. He seems to be satisfied by it. He drains the remainder of his orange juice and swirls the melted, misshapen ice cubes around the bottom of the glass.

Gerhard gets the hint. He finishes his beer and starts to reach for his wallet, only to find that Ayrton has beaten him to it. The waiter comes to collect their money, and wishes them a good night as they get up to leave.

They walk in silence past groups of youths and girls. Gerhard automatically looks at the young women. He's not sure why he feels the need to do this when all he wants is walking right beside him, but somehow it's easier to stick with what you know. The right way, the moral path…

Gerhard shakes his head, amused by his own meandering thoughts. He's just realised that, for him, Ayrton is a sin.

Close by the cathedral is a small, elegant building neither of them had noticed earlier. Built around a walled courtyard, it's a two-storey house with a flight of steps leading to a balcony covered with wisteria. The purple flowers are faded, dry and rustling after the summer heat, but Gerhard can imagine their scent.

A small fountain plays in the centre of the courtyard. There's a sign on the wall, and Ayrton tells him that the building is now used as the City Archives. He points to the letterbox as they leave. It shows three swifts and a tortoise.

"It used to be a place for lawyers," Ayrton says. "Those represent the swiftness of truth and the slowness of law."

Gerhard snorts. "More symbols."

"They are everywhere," Ayrton agrees placidly. "But you do not have to see them, or make sense of them. They can mean nothing, if that is what you want."

"Or they can mean something else entirely," Gerhard argues, fuelled by the bravery of alcohol. "The swiftness of desire and the slowness of love, for example. Why must the tortoise always represent something slow to come? It could mean constancy or longevity."

Ayrton looks at him. "The swiftness of desire and the longevity of love."

"Why not?" Gerhard sticks out his chin. "It sounds romantic enough."

"It does."

"Then don't you laugh at me, Senna."

Ayrton hides a smile. "I am not laughing. It is just that I cannot think of a single relationship of yours where longevity has been part of the equation. Swiftness, yes." He puts his head to one side and his eyes gleam, mischievous, as he adds, "But never longevity."

Gerhard pretends to be hurt. "Then you should examine your memory," he says; and then, when Ayrton makes no reply, he realises that his hurt is no pretence.

They return to the hotel and retire to their separate rooms.

* * *

The next morning is even hotter, the sky without a cloud. They argue good-naturedly over a late breakfast about what they will do today. Gerhard suggests taking a train to Sitges: the beaches there are spectacular, he says, and the women are no doubt pert and beautiful in their swimwear.

"Not as beautiful as the Brazilians," Ayrton says; and Gerhard has to agree.

They walk to the train station, and are puzzled by the number of people of all ages crowding the streets nearby. It's like Monza on a race weekend. The Catalan flag, yellow and red, flies proudly from dozens of hands. Chants can be heard; girls squeal; car horns blare.

Ayrton points to a poster displayed on a hoarding. It shows a matador dressed in a flamboyant gold _traje de luces_ , his scarlet cape sweeping back dramatically as an enraged bull charges forwards.

"It's a bullfight," he says. "The city will be busy today."

Gerhard turns his head to follow the progress of two well-dressed, well-proportioned blondes. "So there will be nobody at the beach," he says mournfully. "It's not worth going, then."

Ayrton looks pleased. "But we can go to Montserrat instead."

Gerhard tuts. One way or another, Ayrton always gets what he wants.

* * *

The train to Montserrat is empty of all but the devoted and a few tourists. Gerhard leans against the window and watches the landscape roll by. Outside the city, the country is a deep, dusty green split by pale brown scars of earth. They travel away from the coast, and the heat rises as the hills begin to unfold.

Gerhard stands up and slides the air vent across the window so that the breeze comes in. It flattens his hair against his head. He's already sweating: moisture beads his upper lip and the front of his chest. He sits down again and shifts in the seat, moving sideways in increments towards the shadow.

Ayrton sits opposite. His back is to the direction of travel. It seems that he doesn't like to see where he's going when someone else is driving. He reads a newspaper, his heavy brows pulled together in a frown as he translates.

Gerhard is free to look at him. He watches the way the midday sun catches on the gloss of raven-dark wavy hair; how it gilds the planes of warm olive skin and lingers with shadow over the curve of that sensual mouth. He looks at Ayrton's hands holding the newspaper, and imagines those hands on the wheel of the McLaren. He can't quite bring himself to imagine Ayrton's hands on him.

"What is it?" Ayrton asks, breaking into his thoughts, and Gerhard starts guiltily. He is sure his intentions are written upon his face, and so he blusters.

"I was just wondering who that was," he says, pointing to the picture on the front of the newspaper.

Ayrton folds it back to look. "A politician," he says, and gives Gerhard a strange look. "You want to know about Spanish politics?"

"Not at all," Gerhard assures him with a smile. "Give me the sports pages. I can understand that."

By the time they reach Montserrat, he's read the sports section twice. It's a relief when the train comes to a halt. They take the cable car up to Montserrat itself, a village perched high in the enfolded embrace of strange, luminous rock formations that resemble pale, pudgy fingers reaching up to stroke the sky.

Below them, the road to the village performs a lazy series of switchbacks as it climbs higher. A coach labours its way along the road, small and insubstantial against the towering rock and the mighty monastery that dominates the hillside.

Gerhard looks at Ayrton. He expected him to be gazing up at the monastery. Instead he tracks the progress of a man walking along a narrow path around the rock-face, towards a small chapel.

"What's that?" he asks.

Ayrton stares at the chapel. "A holy place. A place of pilgrimage."

"Right." Gerhard leans back against the side of the cable car and looks instead at the monastery. Huge and square, with a small apse rounding one end, its stone is the same dust-flesh shade as the hills. Its roof is red; shingled terracotta. There is a tower with decoration that looks vaguely Moorish.

"And there's a village here, too?" Gerhard can't see it.

"Apparently so."

"Good. I'm hungry."

Ayrton gives him an amused glance. "You're always hungry."

"Not always. It depends on the company."

Now he looks startled. "I make you hungry?"

"Intelligent people scare me. I have to eat to make up for my lack."

He sees the way Ayrton's gaze runs over his body. "Then you are clearly not surrounded by intelligent people often."

"Alas, McLaren is peopled with idiots," Gerhard agrees mournfully.

He is rewarded with another of those rare smiles. "You are a fool."

"A hungry fool," Gerhard says as the cable car swings into the loading bay at the top of its run. "Come on. Let's eat."

They walk slowly up the slope from the cable car station towards the village, which furls tight around its church and the monastery as if afraid to show itself. A line of stalls sells olivewood rosaries, cheese, bread, and lace. There are no young people here, save for the tourists that came up with them. The village is populated by the elderly, who gaze at Gerhard and Ayrton with a distant wariness, as if seeing outsiders for the first time.

They go into a small restaurant in the shadow of the church tower. Everything is expensive. Ayrton wrinkles his nose at the menu, but Gerhard orders as lavishly as the fare allows.

"You don't need to be so tight," he remarks as Ayrton's food, a small salad and a cup of black-smelling coffee, arrives at the table.

"It's not being 'tight'," Ayrton responds. "It's being restrained."

"Oho!" Gerhard can't resist the obvious joke. He gives a dirty grin. "Never knew you were into that kind of thing."

Ayrton merely looks at him.

Gerhard swallows his laughter and turns his head to glance out of the window. He can feel his face burn with sudden guilty awareness. The idea of his friend tied with soft red bonds around his wrists is uppermost in his mind. He's sure that Ayrton would hate it: the controller controlled. It's one thing to teach him to laugh, but to teach him to submit? Gerhard shakes his head, both appalled and aroused by his thoughts.

"What's wrong?" Ayrton's voice cuts into him, soft and curious.

"Nothing." Gerhard takes a gulp of Ayrton's coffee and then splutters at the bitterness. "Ugh! Why don't you put sugar in this!"

The moment passes. He can relax again.

* * *

After lunch, they walk across the cobbled road and up onto the terrace that supports the weight of the monastery. The sun is high overhead, shrilling-bright. There is scarcely any shade at all here, apart from that afforded by the vast edifice before them.

Gerhard wipes his forehead with his fingers and grimaces at the sweat. It would have been the same had they gone to the beach, but at least there would have been a sea breeze to relieve the unrelenting heat.

They pass through the entrance and find themselves in an empty cloister. The sunlight pours into the space, filling it with blazing warmth. It leaches out the colour from the marble, save for the shocking glints of gold that ribbon through the pavement. Gerhard holds up a hand to protect his eyes from the glare. Ayrton crosses the cloister in the full heat-strike of the day, his shadow inconsequential at his feet.

Inside, the monastery church is dim gilt Baroque. Incense lingers in the air, and Gerhard catches a sneeze before he can shatter the peace of sanctuary. A strange, subterranean echo rolls around the church: a relic, or so he thinks, of monastic chant.

High above the altar is a small gallery. Sitting in state, enshrined within gold, he can see the Black Madonna: Our Lady of Montserrat. Gerhard stands in the middle of the nave, one hand resting lightly on the back of a pew, and he watches a few visitors file past the Madonna. Some bow to her; others touch the orb she holds in her hand. One even bends to kiss her.

Ayrton turns to him and nods towards the staircase leading to the gallery. Gerhard shakes his head. Catholics can be so heathen sometimes, he thinks. He would prefer to worship the flesh, not cold stone.

He sits on the pew to wait. The visitors come down from the gallery. Their faces are peaceful. Gerhard hopes that their prayers are granted somehow. When he sees Ayrton's slight figure approach the Madonna, he stands up and walks outside. It's too much to watch him at such a focused devotion. It feels intrusive.

The cloister is no longer empty. A pigeon wanders around, seemingly oblivious to the heat. On the other side of the colonnade he can see a pair of monks walking slowly, their dark robes a ripple of movement.

He strolls through the middle of the cloister, close to the pigeon. It is unconcerned by his presence. Suddenly, he lunges towards it with a wild yell. The bird takes fright, flapping skywards with a soft whisper of fluttery panic.

Gerhard laughs. The sound bounces back at him from the walls of the cloister. Beneath the arched shadow, the monks pause to look at him. They seem startled by his strange behaviour. He wonders if they have ever had the urge to split the peace of this place. Probably not, he thinks; he is the lucky one.

He is waiting in the ex voto room at the front of the monastery when Ayrton rejoins him. For ten minutes or more, Gerhard has been examining the objects left here by grateful pilgrims to whom the Black Madonna has extended her favour.

As Ayrton comes in, Gerhard asks, "What did you ask for?"

Ayrton gives him a patient look. "I can't tell you."

"Why not? It's not like it's a birthday wish that won't come true just because you share it, is it?"

"Maybe it is."

Gerhard looks around the ex voto room. "Let me guess, then. You want to win another championship. You'd like to be a billionaire. You'd like a son…"

Ayrton's jaw tightens.

"You'd like me to shut the fuck up," Gerhard finishes lamely.

"Does it matter what I want?" Ayrton asks.

"It matters to me."

There's a moment of silence, for once uncomfortable between them; and then Ayrton says, his voice quiet, "I can't tell you."

"If I asked for something, I'd tell you," Gerhard says, trying to make a joke out of the whole thing.

"I know you would. But…" Ayrton turns in the doorway and faces the empty cloister, gazing unseeing at the pale marble pavement with the flash of gold running through it. "But then, you have never had a problem with admitting sin."

He walks out into the cloister, leaving Gerhard to stare after him in astonishment.

* * *

They linger in Montserrat for a while longer, walking out along the road past the monastery towards the car park. The coach he'd spotted earlier has long since departed, and now there are only a few vehicles left. Gerhard sighs at the feel of the sun, its fierce power waning for the day. It's comfortable now, and he thinks he could stay up here forever in this kind of weather.

Walking back to the cable car station, Gerhard realises there is something wrong. The cables are not moving. The low-level hum that accompanied the movement of the cars is now silent.

He looks at Ayrton, and sees blank-faced consternation.

The villager who operates the cable car is closing up for the day. Gerhard hangs back while Ayrton talks himself into a blur of words, Spanish and Portuguese slipping together. The villager shakes his head and shrugs. He points to the sign by the door. Gerhard looks at it and sees that they've missed the last car by half an hour. The next one is not until nine the following morning.

"Even if we walked down the hill, it would be no good," Ayrton says as they make their way back up the slope towards the village. "The cable car closes once the last train to Barcelona has gone through."

"We could get a taxi," Gerhard suggests.

"A taxi!" Ayrton looks startled. "It would cost a fortune."

"We both have a fortune," Gerhard says reasonably. "Come on. This isn't about being tight or restrained, as you like to call it. This is common sense. We need to get back…"

Ayrton stops in front of their lunchtime restaurant. The proprietor is closing up, wiping down the tables and straightening the chairs.

"Do we?"

Gerhard stares at him. "Of course we do. We can't stay here." He gestures around at the village. Never lively to begin with, the place seems to be edging towards sleep. The stalls are empty, and the windows of the houses are shuttered.

"Yes, we can."

Ayrton turns and walks purposefully towards the monastery. Gerhard gapes after him, and then realises what he intends.

"I'm not spending the night in a monastery!" he calls.

"Then sleep outside in the cloister."

"Cheeky bastard," Gerhard mutters, and runs after him.

* * *

By some small miracle – or the promise of a large donation, or perhaps just the innate kindness of the Benedictine Order – Ayrton manages to procure for them two rooms in the monastery guesthouse. He points to the silent windows with undisguised pleasure. Situated outside the cloister and backing onto the pale hillside, the guesthouse has a small lawn with climbing roses trained against one wall.

Gerhard groans at the idea of passing the night here. He imagines a wooden cot with straw on a bare stone floor in a small, whitewashed room. He thinks of a lone candle to illuminate his nighttime ablutions, which will be carried out in a stone sink in cold water drawn from a well.

Ayrton looks pleased with himself.

A monk shows them to their rooms, which are at opposite ends of a short corridor. A runner covers the stone flags. Gerhard is unimpressed with this small show of luxury, but when he opens the door to his room, he can't help but smile.

It is indeed small, and the walls are white; but they're hung with paintings whose subjects are not obviously religious unless one looks at them closely. Rugs cover the floor, and there's a narrow radiator set beneath the deep-set window.

The bed is hand-carved from olivewood; the mattress covered with a thick, snowy duvet and a couple of pillows. The en-suite is cramped, but contains everything a bathroom should, including complimentary soap, shampoo, a comb, and toothpaste.

Gerhard investigates everything, including the leather-bound copy of the Bible in Spanish that sits on the bedside table. He kicks off his shoes and lies on the bed, denting the perfection of the duvet. It smells clean and fresh, and he realises then that he's sweaty from the day.

He jumps up and strips off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor as he hurries to take a shower. He uses all the soap, reducing the tiny bar to a squashed shape. When he steps out of the bathroom, he looks at his crumpled clothes and wonders if he should even bother getting dressed again.

Then his stomach rumbles and reminds him he hasn't had dinner yet, and so he scrambles back into his clothes and makes his way along the corridor to knock on Ayrton's door.

"Come in," Ayrton calls, and Gerhard does so. He backs up when he sees his friend naked but for a towel wrapped around his waist. He's combing his unruly hair back from his face, concentrating on his reflection. He doesn't see Gerhard staring at his body, at the wet curls on his chest arrowing down to his groin.

"You were quick," he remarks, throwing down the comb.

"I'm hungry," Gerhard says, and tries not to look at him too openly.

They venture out of the guesthouse into the village in search of food. There is a bar full of the elderly locals, who take pity on them and serve up a thick, tangy meat stew with hunks of fresh bread dotted with olives and oregano. Glasses of the local wine, a red so dark it's almost black, are set in front of them. Gerhard tries it, and finds it surprisingly good. He urges Ayrton to drink some, and is rewarded with a smile of pleasure.

"It's good."

Gerhard grins. "Maybe getting stuck here wasn't so bad, after all."

Later, they sit astride the retaining wall on the monastery terrace and look down at the silent rig of the cable car. The great church bells ring out, summoning the monks to the last service of the day.

"Compline," Ayrton says in explanation, which means nothing to Gerhard; but he notes that Ayrton makes no move to go inside for the service. They continue to sit on the wall, listening to the echoing boom of the bells ring around and around the pale-fingered hills until they drop into heavy silence.

The village is quiet around them. Far below, where the real world begins, they can see the green of olive trees and the dark ripening gold of crops in terraced fields. Somewhere down there, the railway line crawls back towards Barcelona. Civilisation is only fifty kilometres away, and yet it feels as if they are at the ends of the earth.

Swifts dart and scream as the evening gathers closer. When Gerhard glances up at the monastery, the setting sun dyes the terracotta roof the colour of blood. He shivers involuntarily, and Ayrton misunderstands.

"Are you cold? The temperature drops much quicker here than in the city. Perhaps we should go indoors."

Gerhard doesn't want to go inside. He wants to stay out here and watch the sunset. There's an indefinable sense of serenity about this moment, but to acknowledge it would be to destroy it. So he says nothing, and nods at Ayrton's suggestion.

They part in the corridor. Gerhard fumbles with his key, just to buy enough time to hear the sound of Ayrton's door opening and closing. There's a finality to it, and so he goes into his own room and lies on the duvet.

His watch says nine forty-five. This is the earliest time he'd been to bed since… he can't remember when. It seems ridiculous, but there really is nothing else to do here. He is still for a moment, listening to the sound of his heartbeat; and then he gets up and undresses down to his underwear.

He cleans his teeth, squeezing toothpaste onto his finger and rubbing it around his mouth. He wanders about the room and then looks out of the window at the hillside. Finally he climbs beneath the duvet and picks up the Bible. He stumbles his way through the first chapter of Genesis, relying more on his imperfect memory of the Old Testament than on any skills he may possess in Spanish translation; and then he hears a door click shut outside in the corridor.

Gerhard puts down the Bible. He waits, heart thumping erratically; and then it comes: a soft, tentative knock at his door.

He pushes back the duvet and gets up. He crosses the room in three strides and pulls open the door.

Ayrton stands outside. He's still fully dressed. He doesn't meet his gaze, but looks instead at Gerhard's hand on the door. "This afternoon, you asked me what I prayed for in the church," he begins.

Stunned, Gerhard nods.

Ayrton looks at him. "I asked to be allowed to sin."

"To sin?" Gerhard finds himself repeating, foolishly.

"Just this once." Ayrton's accent roughens. "If it is permitted."

Gerhard can barely breathe. He holds onto the door and wonders why he feels so terrified. He feels his hand shaking and grips the door harder, trying to stop it.

Ayrton takes his silence for assent. He steps forward, over the threshold, close enough to touch. He tilts back his head, and there is uncertainty in those big dark eyes. "I don't trust anyone else. It has to be with you."

It should sound arrogant, like a command; but it is the opposite. The uncertainty is what undoes Gerhard. He reaches out, catching the door against his foot. He puts his hands on Ayrton's shoulders and feels him tremble suddenly.

"Ayrton," he says, and his voice is full of wonder and disbelief and need; but it is only the disbelief that seems to resonate.

His eyes wide, Ayrton asks, "You don't want me?"

"That," Gerhard says, "is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard."

The door clicks shut behind them.

* * *

The morning feels unfamiliar.

Gerhard wakes to find the light still on and the sun creeping through the narrow window, filtering down from the hillside. He surfaces from the tangled duvet and breathes in the scent of musk and sex and Ayrton. His morning erection intensifies with the pulse of memory, and he wonders what time Ayrton left their bed.

He grabs his watch from the bedside table and groans at the time. Almost ten o'clock: but at least the cable car will be running now.

He rolls out of bed, stripping the stained sheets and balling them up so the monks won't be offended. Then he takes a quick shower, stretching beneath the lukewarm water and discovering scratches and bites and bruises in unexpected places. It's one of the most arousing showers he's ever had, especially one taken alone. Gerhard has a smile on his face when he returns to the bedroom and gets dressed.

Ayrton doesn't answer his knocks at the door. When Gerhard tries the handle, the door opens to reveal a neat and tidy room. Ayrton has gone. Gerhard assumes that he went to find breakfast, and so he wanders down the stairs and hands over his key to the monk sitting reading yesterday's newspaper.

In passable English, the monk tells him that Ayrton has gone to visit Santa Cova. This is the tiny chapel built over the cave in the rock-face where the Black Madonna was found over a thousand years ago. It's along the winding trail that they'd seen from the cable car. Gerhard smiles and thanks the monk, although he's less than pleased with Ayrton. He should have stayed in his bed, in his arms.

Gerhard walks across the terrace to the restaurant. A small crowd of tourists has just arrived, and so he waits in line to buy a cup of coffee and a sweet, flaky pastry. His intention to wait for Ayrton to come back erodes with each passing moment, and in the end he stuffs the remainder of the pastry into his mouth and leaves without finishing his coffee.

He takes the steps down to the start of the trail and sets off around the hillside. The path dips and climbs, narrows and broadens. At intervals there are statues that represent the Stations of the Cross. Gerhard glances at them without much interest, except for the fact that they are good markers of how far he still has to go.

Finally he reaches the chapel of Santa Cova. Inside, a row of candles burns in front of the dark, rubbled wall of the shrine. A replica of the Black Madonna peers out coyly. A monk paces in the ex voto room to one side of the chapel.

Ayrton sits in a chair in front of the shrine, his eyes closed and his lips parted as if in deep prayer.

Gerhard is about to retreat outside when Ayrton lifts his head. "Hello."

"Hi."

It should be awkward. Five hours ago they were so entangled in pleasure that nothing else existed. Gerhard catches his breath at the memory, and at the sudden shocking remembrance that he'd used the word 'love'.

Now it's awkward.

Ayrton gets up from his seat and comes towards him. Gerhard can smell him, the delicacy of the monastery soap washing clean the scent of his possession. Ayrton's lips are soft and bruised. Gerhard knows why. He closes his eyes on the images, and breaks the spell.

"Did you eat breakfast?" Ayrton asks.

"Yes."

"Good."

Gerhard follows him as he wanders out of the chapel and into a tiny cloister. He wonders if this is how it'll be from now on: stilted conversation and an avoidance of what happened between them. Was it because he'd admitted that he loved him? Ayrton was too passionate not to be loved; he knows that now, although he'd suspected it before. More importantly, would this destroy their friendship? Gerhard thinks he could live on the memories of last night alone if he still had that.

The cloister is a perfect microcosm of monastic life. Sheltered from the full glare of the sun at this time of the day, it's green with plants in terracotta pots. A fountain trickles, slow and musical, in one corner. Pieces of religious art adorn the walls, a balance for the shaped form of the hillside bulging above them.

"The cable car is running," Gerhard says. "We can go back."

Ayrton turns from his examination of the fountain. "Do you want to go back?"

Gerhard knows he does not mean the return to Barcelona. He's not sure what to say. Last night was only about stepping away from the moral path. There is no future in sin, and he would be a fool to offer indulgences he is ill-prepared to give.

Ayrton is looking at him, waiting for an answer.

He nods. "Yes. I want to go back," he says, and for a moment he sees a flash of disappointment in Ayrton's eyes, quickly replaced by a release of tension in the set of his shoulders.

"Then we shall," Ayrton says. "There is a train at midday."

"Okay."

They stand together in silence. The fountain trickles. Inside the chapel, they can hear the footsteps of the monk.

Ayrton looks up at the colonnade.

Gerhard has to know. "Last night," he begins, his gaze fixed on Ayrton almost painfully, "what did it mean?"

But Ayrton is already gone from him, looking up from the colonnade of the cloisters at the pale sanded rock-face above them, at the patch of blue sky as wide and deep as infinity; and so rapt is he in this promise of the world beyond that Gerhard can forgive him his next words.

"It meant nothing."


End file.
